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Wednesday, 25 October 2017

This week's photo prompt was taken by London photographer Andy Bate as part of a Powder Dance series. He's got a wonderful portfolio, go take a peek.

Warning: possible triggers for Self Harm and/or Suicide
I had an opening for this story, but it came out differently. Being someone who has experienced mental health issues I know how sensitive these topics are. I personally have no experience with what I have written, but I have friends that have and have an understanding of it. Maybe this will help others understand too.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Release

Maddy was bleeding and she was relieved. It was coming out
thick and fast and covering her in its glory. She ran her fingers over it and
felt its warmth, the first warmth she’d felt in years.

It glimmered and shined in the dim bathroom light, the
candles Maddy had set out picking up the nuances of texture as it slid down her
skin.

She smiled.

It felt like a part of her had been released, set free from
all the pressures of the world around her. It was like she had opened up a hole
in her soul and its bright light was shining out, in all its red glory. She
adored it.

She felt for the
first time in so long, and it felt good to feel: positive rather than negative,
happy rather than sad. It emitted from her like a beam, glistening off the
walls and shimmering in the mirror when she looked at her face.

Maddy was not old, barely in her twenties, but she felt old
and tired to her very core. Normally the mirror reflected that, but not
tonight. Tonight the lines on her forehead had cleared and her eyes shone. She
felt alive and energized.

She sat down on the edge of the bath, her legs almost jelly
like in the excitement of the release, but balancing became tricky, so she slid
down the side of the bath onto the floor.

As Maddy’s energy level subsided she felt a wave of
tiredness sweep over her. She wrapped bandages round her cuts and secured them
before allowing her eyes to fall shut. She would clean up properly after a
rest, and before she faced the world again.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

I tracked this week's photo prompt down to being taken by Niki Feijen, a male Dutch photographer. The Internet says it is an abandoned chateau in Belgium, but I can't confirm that, or, if it was, which chateau it was taken in. Such a shame.

As soon as I looked at this picture I saw these two characters sitting in the chairs, but what were they saying? And what was their story? So I wrote it to find out. What will you see?

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Country Pile

“It had
strong foundations, don’t you think, Payton?”

“It did
that, Roderick, it did that.”

The two men
nodded as they surveyed their surroundings from their armchairs: the majestic
arches rising to the ornate ceilings, the large dramatic windows overlooking
the acres of once manicured gardens. They sat as kings in their own palace.

“If only we
could have saved it from falling into the hands of the Sackville’s we might
have had a chance.”

“Yes, they
were conniving. Bronte - that’s where it all began.” Just saying her name Payton
looked like he’d tasted something nasty.

Roderick
sighed. “Yes. She knew how to entrap her victims. Those beguiling eyes. She
entranced us. Had she not attended the Opening Ball when father had finished
refurbishing the house, we might still be here.”

“Or at
least our family line might be.”

“Yes. But
she knew how to pit brothers against each other. It was clearly a dance she had
been trained to lead.”

“Her father
set her up to it; he admitted as much the night of our fight.” Payton gave an
abashed glance at his brother.

Roderick’s
eyes grew round. “Really? Now that is news to my ears.”

“Well yes,
it would be, our fight was fatal for you. I’ve never forgiven myself.”

“Now, now,
we were both enraged that night. She played us for fools.”

“Indeed.
And mother never recovered from the scandal, and without her father couldn’t
manage it all alone. The downfall began – both financially and socially.”

“Yes, but
had you managed to sire just one child with her it would have been worth it.”

“Excuse me?
How dare you!”

“Brother
dear, we are long past recriminations, it’s just a fact.”

“But
Roderick, what you miss is that she didn’t want to sire my children. Why do you
think I am here?”

“I seem to
miss your meaning ...?”

“She was in
love with Mortimer all along. I was just a financial conquest for her to gain
favour with him. Bronte was clever with chemicals and biology. She pretended grief
at my death because she had been the cause.”

“Payton,
dear brother, you mean she murdered you?”

“Yes.
Mother might not have had strong genes, but father did. I’d never been sick a
day in my life until I married her.”

“Did you
know?”

“I had an
inkling, but she made sure I didn’t have the strength to investigate further.”

“A sorry
tale, brother.”

“It is
indeed. And the house reflects it.” Payton waved what was left of their family
estate.

Wednesday, 4 October 2017

I spent an awful long time trying to source this week's picture, but to no avail. It was not credited anywhere by anyone, but used a lot. It's tricky when that happens, and a little disappointing as I am always hoping to see more from the creator. Should you come across the owner of it, please let me know.

I planned on being quick off the mark with this week's entry, but despite starting it last Friday, the story took a while to appear and develop. I hope you enjoy it - and this week's prompt picture.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

My Pretty

“Pretty, oh
so pretty, my pretty,” Genghis cooed out of the cell window at the raven who
had become a nightly visitor.

He
suspected who it was and appreciated the gesture. He hoped the bird would bring
him a message, but wondered if the raven was also affected by whatever sorcery
had been placed round the cell. He pondered how they had managed to create a place
where no magic worked.

The raven
cawed and turned its head back and forth indicating something in the sky.
Genghis pulled the wooden stool over and climbed up, trying to see further out
the window.

The moon
was rising and it was getting fat.

Yes! That
was it!

“Ha, ha,
you’re more than just a pretty, my fine feathered friend. Thank you. I know
what to do now.”

The raven cawed
softly in response and flew off. Genghis remained on the stool, working out the
zenith of the moon and when it would light up the cell. He only had 24 hours until
it reached its full potential. It should be long enough.

The
following day he ignored the guard’s visits: their jeers, their swears, and the
gruel they brought him. Genghis had to cleanse himself ready for the moment.

Once the
sun went down he prepared the floor. He had nothing to mark it with, but he
knew the energy from his finger would be enough as he drew the incantation
lines where the moonlight would hit.

He sat in
the middle of the cell floor and waited, moving his mind into a trancelike
state ready for transition.

He felt the
beams cross his body and reach the lines on the floor, the hair on his head rising
in response to the two energy forces colliding - the moons and his.

Then blankness
took him.

When consciousness
returned, he opened his eyes. He was sitting on a polished marble floor which
swept away in all directions to meet marble walls encircling him. There was a
single large window cut into one of them and through it sunlight streamed.

Genghis
smiled. He had arrived. He leapt up and went to the window to see the world
outside, but all he could see was a white glare as though the sunlight was
trapped in a mist. He couldn’t define his location.

The room
had no exit either, which baffled Genghis. He was sure this was Maudlin’s home.
She was the only one who could affect the shape of a raven; it had to be her.

Genghis
heard a caw and the bird appeared on the window ledge, then materialised into the
dark robes Maudlin liked to wrap herself in. She threw back her hood.

“Genghis,
you made it.”

“I did
indeed Maudlin, thank you. But what is this place?”

The smile
on her face increased. “Ah, this is my secret place.”

“Secret
place?”

“Yes Genghis,
where I extract payment.”

“Payment?
For what?”

“For
abuses.”

Ghenghis
was puzzled.

“And how have
I abused you, Maudlin?”

“You defiled
my sister.”

“Your
sister?”

“What did
they arrest you for, Ghenghis? Did you think it was just for being a sorcerer?”

Ghenghis
did think that. The girl had been used as bait, he was sure of it.

“She was
nothing but a decoy, a fake, a peasant to entrap me.”

“Oh no,
Ghenghis, she was real and she was my blood.”

“But I only
did it to show them, to prove to them that I saw through their games.”

“It seems
your paranoia got the better of you, Ghenghis.”

His eyes
widened. “But Maudlin you have to believe me, I intended no disrespect, no
desire to cross you.”

“It’s too
late, Ghenghis, you are here now.”

“And where exactly
is here?”

“A plane
where things like to visit.”

Ghenghis
felt his breath catch and his flesh ripple as cold swept over it. He knew the
things that liked to visit in other planes; they haunted every sorcerer’s nightmares.

“But
Maudlin, please you have to forgive me.”

She turned
her back and walked to the window. He followed, imploring her further.

“You have
to understand, I had no idea who the girl was.”

“I’m sorry,
Ghenghis, it is already done.”

Her form
shrank back until only a raven was perched on the windowsill. It cawed at him,
its steely black eyes perusing him once more before it flew off.

Ghenghis
fell to his knees in the pool of sunlight. Once that disappeared he knew his
life was forfeit.

I think I might have unraveled a world of images I want to write for when I sourced this week's image. Sarolta Ban is a Hungarian photographer and artist, and her work is just amazing. I have always loved surreal art, but these really speak to me.

I also have a thing for keys. I don't know what it is, but they just represent so many things to me - in some ways you could say they 'unlock my mind'! 😁

This week's piece came out with a nice, dark ending. I feel like I'm returning to the quality of flash I used to write before I took a 6 month flash from writing it regularly. I really liked this one. Hope you do too.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Delivery

When Jack opened the back door he wasn’t quite sure what to
make of this morning’s delivery. It unsettled him a bit.

For the last week, his dog, Darko, had been bringing home
bones and placing them on the mat at the back door. He’d been digging them up
out of the vegetable patch at the end of the garden. Jack thought he’d found
some kind of pet cemetery, but today’s object wasn’t a bone it was a key - a
really big key.

Jack picked it up and hefted it in his hand; it had to be at
least half a pound in weight, although it still had mud on it. He took it to
the sink and washed it, revealing an elaborate filigree top, or ‘bow’ as he
later found out. The teeth were also elaborate, with bumps and holes. The
internet provided all sorts of terminology, but no indication of what kind of
lock it belonged to.

Questions nagged at him: Had the key been buried alone? Could the lock it opened be buried with
it?If so, could there be a chest buried
under the vegetable patch?

Jack tried not to entertain notions of buried treasure,
knowing it was unlikely, but the back of his mind kept presenting such
thoughts, so he scheduled a couple of days off work and bought a new spade for
the job.

Darko loved his dad being home and dug alongside him. By lunch
Jack had managed to get a couple of feet down, with a hole big enough for two
people to lie down in. He found nothing – except more bones. This piece of land
had definitely been some kind of burial site.

Then after lunch he started digging again, going sideways
rather than down, and hit something hard with the spade. The dull thud
indicated wood, but he couldn’t be sure. He continued to dig and scrape
discovering that it ran length ways for several feet as well.

As he ran the spade width ways across the object, he found
an edge and started digging round it, until, on one of his shoves into the
earth, his spade hit something hard. Looking at the tip of the spade he saw a
tiny dent – whatever it was it was metal.

He got down on his knees and scraped the rest of the mud
away with his hand, exposing a door handle. This was a door?

He sat back on his haunches; he hadn’t expected that. Someone
had buried a door. He felt disappointed. He lent forward again and scraped the
earth away from under the handle and sure enough there was the keyhole, one big
enough for the key.

Jack sighed and stood up. Did he want to waste time trying
to lift a door? What would he do with it, sell it? He supposed it might be
worth something. At least it would make the effort worthwhile.

He scraped more earth away with his feet and then stopped.
He tapped his toe on the wood. It sounded hollow underneath. How could it be?

He removed all the soil from around the edges and pulled on
the handle, hoping to lift the door up. It didn’t shift. He pondered: Could it
be locked?

He went back into the house to fetch the key, dismissing
thoughts about his foolishness: Did he really expect it to be locked? It was
just a door dumped here years ago, how could there be anything under it?

He put the key in the lock and turned it. He had expected
resistance, (surely the lock was rusty inside?), but it turned smoothly and he
was surprised to hear a click.

He hesitated. He had no idea what he was opening, was he
making a mistake? He ignored his apprehension and pulled again. This time the
door started to lift. He heard air escaping, and then smelt it; it was rank,
with a rancid, acrid edge that was almost tangible.

Then Jack heard shuffling, and before he could drop the
door, a hand came out and grabbed his. Then another came out and another,
pulling him down, pulling him in.

Darko barked but backed up, pee running down his leg as he
watched his master struggle & scream. The sound eventually cut off by the
door slamming shut.

There was a faint click and the key shot up out into the
air, landing at the dog’s feet. Darko whined, missing his master.